The phone rings. It’s one of the women on reception, who introduces herself by name and sounds both pleasant and polite.

‘You have a visitor, a Lisa Savic. Apparently, she’s arranged to see you – would you like me to bring her up?’

*

Once again Lisa Savic makes a very positive impression when they shake hands. She’s wearing the same sweater, jeans and boots, but today the outfit is complemented by a scarf wound around her neck to protect her from the autumn wind. Anna had completely forgotten the meeting after the chaos of the previous day. She tells herself it’s better to be doing something rather than staring at the phone.

‘I’m not just here because of my father,’ Lisa begins when she’s settled in one of the visitor’s chairs. Her voice is soft and pleasant, her accent from somewhere in central Sweden. ‘My mother died when I was eleven. I was born when she was only twenty, and she wasn’t ready to have a child. It might have been because of the drug abuse, or something else. Whatever the reason, she handed me over to a foster family when I was a baby. She didn’t abandon me,’ Lisa adds before Anna can say anything. ‘When she was drug-free and feeling well she came to see me, and she sent presents on every birthday. She and my foster parents were in regular contact, and when she died, they even cleared out her apartment.’

Anna leans forward; in spite of everything that’s going on, she wants to know where this narrative is heading.

‘And your father?’

Lisa shrugs. ‘He came with Mum to see me a few times when I was little, but I don’t remember anything about it. There are a couple of old photographs of the three of us sitting in the garden. We weren’t exactly playing happy families, if I can put it that way.’

She smiles sadly; Anna can’t help smiling back.

‘When my mother died, the link between us disappeared. However, a few years ago I started to wonder who I was. It’s not unusual in children who have been adopted or grew up in foster care. I think I really wanted to find out more about my mother, all the stuff she hadn’t told me. Who she was when she was young, what she dreamed of . . . Why things turned out the way they did. So, I contacted my father.’

Her smile is a little shy this time, as if she is waiting for Anna to say something, but then she goes on: